Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: NSFW
Fandom: The Witcher
Relationship: Jaskier/Geralt
Tags: Getting Together, Between Episodes, slight canon divergence i guess, Oral Sex, Hand Jobs, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Hair-pulling, Come Swallowing, Come Marking, Enthusiastic Consent, Miscommunication
Wordcount: 3372
Notes: Title from Helter Skeleton by The Gaslighting Anthem. Partecipa alla settima settimana del COWT per la missione M6, prompt: Rimpiangere ciò che non è stato (e porvi rimedio)

Summary:

Excerpt:

Geralt never considered Jaskier as a sexual partner until the bard asked him, as a hypothetical question, if he would ever let him suck his cock. As a friend, of course; Jaskier would have never imagined to impose himself as a romantic partner on him, because of course Geralt with his looks could certainly do better than some bard.
[...]
Jaskier sat on the bed a little heavily, like his knees had gone weak under his weight. “Are you telling me you’ve been thinking about it, Geralt?” he said, and it probably meant to sound teasing, but his voice was more gravelly than usual, and Geralt could smell the sharp spike of arousal on him. “You would really let me?”

{ read on AO3 | read here }

Geralt never considered Jaskier as a sexual partner until the bard asked him, as a hypothetical question, if he would ever let him suck his cock. As a friend, of course; Jaskier would have never imagined imposing himself as a romantic partner on him, because of course Geralt with his looks could certainly do better than some bard.

He hadn’t been sleeping since the mess that had been Pavetta’s betrothal in Cintra, and he felt unhinged in ways he couldn’t even describe, but he was pretty sure his hearing was still working.

“We’re not friends,” he answered automatically even as his mind reeled, stuck between blankness and vivid, obscene fantasies.

Jaskier looked crestfallen. “Really, Geralt? We’ve known each other for twelve years now, we’ve been through thick and thin, and you still don’t think we’re friends?”

He pouted, elbows resting on his knees, lute resting in his lap. His mouth was very pink in the low light. The fire was almost going out.

Fuck. “It’s been twelve years already?”

Jaskier smiled. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“I guess that would be enough time for us to become friends.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you. So,” he drawled, licking his lips. “You would let me suck you off, if fancy so struck me?”

“No,” Geralt answered.

Jaskier shrugged, wrapped his lute back in furs before putting it away in its case before going to bed, and that was that.

Except it wasn’t, actually, because Geralt couldn’t stop thinking about it. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe it was because it had been a while since he had visited a brothel, but whenever they sat together, he couldn’t help but look at Jaskier, now. Every time the bard licked his lips or brought food to his mouth, Geralt thought about that night, when Jaskier had asked him, casual as you please, “Would you let me suck you off?”

It felt like Geralt was going out of his mind. He didn’t know if it had been Jaskier’s idea of a joke, or if it was a test, or what. It had seemed like something Jaskier would do. But after Geralt had refused, the bard never brought it up again, not even to tease him about it.

Eventually, they stopped at an inn; they had enough coin for a room and a bath, and Jaskier itched to try and sing his newest ballad in front of an audience. As he was getting himself ready for bed, chattering and complaining about the lukewarm response, Geralt lay on the bed, observing him absently; despite his tiredness, sleep seemed like a distant and unlikely option. He should have tried to meditate, but while the trance healed his body, it took a toll on his mind, and he really didn’t feel like it.

Jaskier knelt on the floor to rummage through his bag, and Geralt’s mind blanked out. “Were you serious, the other night?”

“What? No, I mean—it’s a good song, but it’s definitely not my best one. I didn’t really expect it to be received like a masterpiece because it’s far from being one but—”

“No, I meant—” Geralt licked his lips. “Wanting— about my cock.”

The bard’s face lighted up and then froze, waved it away with a nervous laughter. “Well! That’s—I mean. Yes, I was serious, but I didn’t expect you to take me seriously. I don’t know what I was thinking really, I was—” He coughed. “You know what, just, forget about it, I was over in my head—”

“What if,” Geralt interrupted him, “I didn’t want to forget?”

Jaskier sat on the bed a little heavily, like his knees had gone weak under his weight. “Are you telling me you’ve been thinking about it, Geralt?” he said, and it probably meant to sound teasing, but his voice was more gravelly than usual, and Geralt could smell the sharp spike of arousal on him. “You would really let me?”

It was such a weird way to phrase it, like Geralt was doing him a favour. Instead of answering, he started undoing the laces on his pants. He’d done that dozens of times in front of Jaskier, but this time the bard was staring at him with dark eyes and a poorly suppressed grin, teeth digging in his lower lip.

The bard climbed fully on the bed and crawled closer, until he was between Geralt’s legs, laying on his belly. “Oh, it’s happening,” he breathed out when Geralt pulled his length out, which was slowly stirring in anticipation. “It looks lovely. May I?” he asked but didn’t really wait for permission before putting his mouth and hands on it.

Jaskier’s mouth was warm and wet, his tongue soft and thorough; he hummed and swallowed around Geralt effortlessly, taking time to lick along the shaft and to kiss the head before wrapping his lips around it again. Geralt sighed, tension bleeding out of his muscles like white honey clearing out the toxins from his blood. His hands twitched, fisting themselves in the sheets.

“You can touch my hair,” Jaskier murmured, one breath away from his skin, a clever hand stroking up and down, thumb rubbing just below the crown. He grinned up at Geralt, apparently unselfconscious about the drool on his chin, and winked. “You can pull it a little, even. I like it.”

It was surprisingly soft, but Geralt didn’t dare, just running his fingers through it as he fought the urge to snap his hips forward. Jaskier kept going, tongue worrying at the slit, fingers pressing up in a spot behind his balls that made Geralt’s breath hitch. “You close?” he asked, pulling off for a moment, sounding out of breath and raw. He took the head of his cock back in his mouth without breaking eye contact, and sucked a little harder.

Fuck. Geralt’s mind was full of cotton, his limbs felt heavy and his mouth was dry and full of tar; he didn’t manage to speak, to warn him in time about—he thrusted in Jaskier’s throat, choking him. The bard just made a delighted noise, taking him all the way in, his nose almost pressed against Geralt’s belly, and swallowed. A bit of semen still trickled out from the corner of his mouth and Jaskier chuckled, wiping the wayward fluid with his thumb, licking it clean.

“That was good,” Jaskier said, his usually warm voice gone scratchy. “That was really fun. Did you enjoy yourself?”

Geralt didn’t know what to answer. He had his dick sucked before; it always was pleasurable. He couldn’t really tell if Jaskier had been more or less skilled than his previous bed mates, but—he never had a partner look so genuinely happy about giving him head. It was a little disconcerting. It was good.

“It was good,” he said.

Jaskier smiled. His lips looked pink and inflamed. “They don’t call me the most talented mouth in the continent for nothing!”

Even though his limbs felt like overcooked marrow bone and his head was full of wet cotton, Geralt couldn’t help but snort. “I thought you were a singer.”

“Well, a mouth can be talented in different disciplines, you know!” Jaskier knelt up on the bed, adjusting himself in his breeches. “Gods, I almost creamed my pants. At one point you made the tiniest noise and I was like—”

The line of Jaskier’s dick was clear as day straining against the fabric. He’d gotten aroused just by sucking Geralt off?

“You’re still hard,” he rasped out and then he added, before he could change his mind, “I could give you a hand.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up under his slightly sweaty fringe in surprise, before his expression morphed back into the same delight as before. “Really? Well, if you insist—” he started, shoving his pants down his legs with a wiggle. “Oh wait, scoot back a little, I want to sit on your lap while you jerk me off.”

Geralt obediently moved so that he was with his back against the headboard of the bed, spread his legs a little, wrapped his left arm around Jaskier’s waist, following his instructions. It was pretty warm, pretty comfortable, hooking his chin over the bard’s shoulder so he could see where to put his hand. Jaskier’s cock was an unfamiliar, pleasant weight in his palm, already leaking fluid from the tip.

“Have you done this before? On someone else?” Jaskier asked, sounding breathless already, even though Geralt had barely touched him. “Ohh, your hand is rough, I love it. Sword scars are something else. Go a little faster, maybe? Like that. Fuck, Geralt, please don’t stop,” he babbled on. He twisted around towards him, eyes glazed over with pleasure and urgency, and asked, “Can I kiss you?”

Geralt had given handjobs before, a lifetime ago, to boys whose name he barely remembered, within the cold walls of Kaer Morhen, and it had been nothing like this. It had been quick and quiet and in the middle of the night, hidden by the cover of darkness; it had been spit-slicked palms and awkwardly shared thin blankets spread on the floor. There hadn’t been eye contact or words of encouragement, let alone kisses.

He pressed his mouth against Jaskier’s, and the bard gasped, a hand going to grasp at his shoulder. “Twist your wrist, give me just a little—yes, like that. Tighten your grip a little bit—” he moaned, closing his eyes, hips rolling to fuck into Geralt’s fist.

All Geralt’s focus was on Jaskier. He relaxed, following his instructions, a tendril of heat curling up in his gut whenever he was rewarded with a new whimper of pleasure. He stroked and twisted and squeezed, kissing Jaskier’s neck until his spine arched and he came all over Geralt’s fist, trembling and groaning.

They stayed like that for a moment, Jaskier curled forward, both hands grasping Geralt’s arm still wrapped around his waist, and Geralt with his forehead leaning between Jaskier’s shoulder blades, just breathing. Geralt let himself feel the strange calm that had settled over his body like a blanket of fog. He felt dazed, like he’d been the one reaching his climax.

Jaskier eventually got up, entangling himself from Geralt, stumbling around the room like a new-born fawn as he looked for a rag to clean the mess. “I’m sorry about the kiss, by the way,” he blurted, wiping semen from Geralt’s hand, a blush high on his cheekbones.

Geralt almost stopped him, wondering if he maybe ought to have licked it clean himself. “It’s okay,” he said, instead. “I liked it.”

“Yeah?” Jaskier’s laughter sounded nervous and high, an incredulous note cracking through it like lightning. “I liked it too.”

They spent the night curled close together under the covers, skin touching and breath mingling, their legs tangled together. Jaskier stared at him in the darkness like he was afraid he was going to disappear until his eyelids eventually started drooping, heavy with exhaustion; Geralt fell asleep a little time after, the echo of Jaskier’s delighted laughter in his ears.

“Are we still friends, Geralt?” the bard asked the day after at breakfast, their bags already packed and Roach waiting for them.

We’re not friends, Geralt almost answered as usual between bites, but then he noticed how Jaskier’s grin didn’t reach his eyes, how small he held himself, curled up on the stool, fingers nervously crumbling a piece of bread into smaller and smaller pieces.

He reached out and ruffled his hair. “Of course, we’re still friends. Eat your breakfast, I don’t want to hit the road too late.” He pretended not to notice how Jaskier didn’t squawk at him for messing up his hairdo or how the line of his shoulders relaxed.

Geralt never wondered if things ought to be different between them, after that night; he preferred following Jaskier’s lead on that. From time to time he liked sitting closer to the bard while they ate around the firepit, he liked touching his arm or his shoulder and elicit small, surprised grins from him; but Jaskier had never tried to initiate anything beyond that, and neither did Geralt.

Until he started having problems sleeping again, that is.

He’d seen plenty of children fall victim to monsters in his line of work, but he’d never had nightmares about it afterwards; now whenever he closed his eyes he saw little girls with pale gold hair getting lost in the woods and swallowed by the swamps.

“Tell me how to make you feel good,” he blurted one night at Jaskier, almost begging, the familiar unhinged feeling pressing behind his eyeballs like the beginning of a migraine.

Jaskier was already in his undershirt, sitting up in bed and rubbing some sweet-smelling oil into his skin. A crinkle of worry appeared between his eyebrows. “Shouldn’t you try to get some sleep?”

“I’ll sleep if you let me do this. Please?”

The bard put aside the vial and turned to Geralt. “Do you want to like—cuddle, or something?”

Geralt shook his head. He reached out slowly, touching Jaskier’s knee under the covers. “Would you let me suck you off?” he rasped out, the words sounding almost wrong asking for a favour. Jaskier’s eyes widened, his jaw going slack. “Please. Tell me what to do.”

The bard swallowed audibly, rubbed a hand down his face while muttering something Geralt couldn’t make out. “Sure, why the hell not. Get over he—oh shit, okay, that works too, I guess,” he yelped when Geralt picked him up by the hips to pull him close, almost on his lap, and settled between his legs.

“Talk me through it,” Geralt insisted, slipping his hands up Jaskier’s thighs, rucking up his shirt, uncovering his already half-hard cock. “Tell me what to do,” he repeated, remembering the blanket of fog-calm that had pulled him under last time.

Irony: the only time Geralt wanted him to talk, Jaskier seemed to be at loss for words. “I-I mean, there’s not much to it. You put— put it in your mouth, mind your teeth and suck. I don’t really—”

He looked uneasy, despite the arousal, and Geralt felt hesitant. “I want you to enjoy it,” he told him. “You’re not enjoying yourself.”

“Believe me, I would love to enjoy myself right now, but you’re acting really weird and I’m worried,” Jaskier bit out, sitting up a little and covering Geralt’s hands with his. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I enjoyed myself last time when you told me what to do. I want to feel that again,” Geralt huffed. “Tell me. What. To do.”

Something seemed to click in Jaskier’s mind, frown smoothing out briefly. He cocked his head, mouth stuttering silently on a word. “You liked— you want me to— you want instructions,” he said. Geralt almost huffed again; he didn’t think he’d been unclear on what he wanted. Instead he patiently waited for Jaskier to get on with the program, blinking slowly.

“Instructions, right. Shit.” Jaskier laughed, a sharp edge in it. “How is this my life. Why don’t you start with touching me? I’m cold.”

Geralt breathed out and placed his palm over Jaskier’s cock, which had gone soft while they argued. The bard twitched a little, but he relaxed back on his elbows, so Geralt kept rubbing, focusing on the head, bringing him back to firmness in almost no time at all.

Jaskier grunted softly. “Gods. Well. I actually start when they’re half-soft sometimes because it’s easier to take the whole thing in my mouth—I manage fine uh, later on, but it’s still nice, getting it hard on your tongue,” he babbled, sounding breathless already. “But we’re past that so, uhm. Maybe you can give it a lick?”

Giving it a last squeeze, Geralt leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue along the underside of Jaskier’s cock. It tasted a little salty, a little sweaty, smooth and hot. When he glanced up, Jaskier looked like a spell had petrified him, his clear eyes swallowed up almost completely by his enlarged pupils. “You look amazing,” he murmured, almost reverently. “Uh, go— go over the head, too.”

Geralt obeyed, and Jaskier cursed, eyes closing and nose scrunching up. “Fuck, your mouth is so hot. Now—”

Following Jaskier’s instructions, Geralt sucked the cock in his mouth, minding his teeth, dragging his lips along the shaft. The longer Geralt worked on him, the less hesitant Jaskier became.

“Don’t bother to try and take it in your throat, just keep the head in your mouth and your hand around the base—fuck, like that, yes,” Jaskier moaned, curling in on himself. “Tongue, can you give—Yes. Do that ag- oh Gods. You look— I really want to touch your hair.”

Geralt remembered Jaskier saying, You can pull it a little, even. I like it, and wondered. He pulled off, grimacing a little at the trail of spit and fluid that followed the movement. “Go ahead,” he told him.

“Oh, thank you,” Jaskier breathed out, sinking both his hands into the messy strands, briefly gathering them on Geralt’s nape like a weird knot. His scalp itched a little where he felt the pull, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. “Gorgeous. You’re doing great, keep going.”

Jaskier kept running his mouth, more incoherent by the second, and Geralt kept listening. There was nothing besides Jaskier in his mouth, under his hands, in his ears and he felt calm, lucid.

“Geralt, I’m—”

The bard came with a choked moan that sounded like a sob, his fingers curling on Geralt’s shoulders like he wanted to pull him closer but didn’t dare to. Geralt expected the burst of warmth on his tongue but he wasn’t ready for its bitterness; he gagged on it, cock slipping from his mouth, most of the load splashing on his neck and chest in hot spurts.

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier panted, reaching out to touch a spot on his chin. “You—” his face crumpled, eyes closed, teeth worrying at his lip, before looking again. “That was really good. Did you have fun?”

Geralt nodded, pulling the soiled garment over his head, cleaning the mess on his neck too, a little self-conscious; Jaskier hadn’t told him to swallow but maybe he’d expected him to. “I feel good,” he answered, rough.

“You alright? Need me to—” Jaskier looked down at Geralt’s crotch, a slight frown cutting through the hazy bliss that shone like sweat on his skin, before looking up at his face again.

Geralt had been looking for quiet and clarity and calm. He felt arousal simmer under his skin, but it wasn’t strong enough to make him hard. He’d gotten what he’d come looking for. He was content.

“It felt good,” he insisted, smiling. His face felt slack with relaxation; he wondered what it looked like. He disliked the doubt on Jaskier’s face. “Do you need—?”

“No, no, you were wonderful,” Jaskier reassured, still wearing a jumble of dark emotions under the glow of bliss. “Do you want to lie down with me, like last time?” His expression softened and brightened a little when Geralt nodded, grateful.

They disentangled from their somewhat awkward position from before and curled up against each other. Geralt lay down and thought of sleep, unafraid of nightmares now that his mind felt like a clear winter night; he pulled Jaskier closer, full of wonder. “Thank you,” he murmured against his neck.

“You’re welcome, my friend,” Jaskier answered, his mouth a soft tickle against Geralt’s collarbones. “We’re still friends, aren’t we?” he whispered quietly enough that Geralt almost missed it.

Geralt pulled away a little, looked down at Jaskier and hesitated. As much as he had been denying it for all those years, out of habit at first and as a jest between them then, Jaskier didn’t look like he wanted to hear yes, of course, for once. The bard wasn’t looking at him, eyes fixed somewhere on his chest; he looked carefully blank, the flush from earlier fading, his mouth pressed in a thin line. He wasn’t even blinking. When Geralt touched his cheek, he twitched.

He moved his hand to cradle his neck and Jaskier finally glanced at him; slowly, Geralt pressed his lips against Jaskier’s. The bard sighed, wet and tremulous, and kissed him back.